


The Good Choice

by GotTea



Category: Waking the Dead (TV)
Genre: Arguing, F/M, Makeup Sex, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-04
Updated: 2018-02-04
Packaged: 2019-03-13 18:13:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13576185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GotTea/pseuds/GotTea
Summary: “No,” she interrupts. “Not this time. You’ve really outdone yourself with this, and if you think for one moment I’m going to change my mind then you really don’t know me as well as you think you do, Peter.”





	The Good Choice

**Author's Note:**

> Response to a prompt photo provided by Joodiff. It's all her fault...

**The Good Choice.**

* * *

“No, Boyd. No!” she snaps, her already raging fury with him only compounded by the expression of amusement and intense interest on his face.

It does a lot for him to see her so riled up, she knows. An awful lot. So much so that he has been known, on occasion, to wind her up for just that reason. But right now she doesn’t give a damn. In fact, she doesn’t even care if he –

“But Grace,” he begins, and there’s a carefully calculated amount of charm in his tone that is neither too much, nor too little. He is, after all, very well aware of how to win her over, she knows, but she’s also just a little bit too angry this time to give in. Not without a fight.

He’s just so damn presumptuous sometimes, so sure of himself as he charges recklessly from one thing to another without remembering to at least think about consulting her. It’s… exasperating in the extreme. And it’s high time he was reminded of that. Particularly given how he rages when the current situation is reversed.

“No,” she interrupts. “Not this time. You’ve really outdone yourself with this, and if you think for one moment I’m going to change my mind then you _really_ don’t know me as well as you think you do, Peter.”

It seems to have the desired effect, her stream of furious words, because he hesitates and rocks back on his heels as he considers her, genuine puzzlement washing over his face. Maybe she’s being too hard on him, but then again, maybe she isn’t. There are two people in their relationship, and sometimes he still seems to forget that.

“But I really thought,” he tries, before he trails off as she glares at him.

“Oh, _you thought_ , did you?” It’s incredibly sarcastic, but she really can’t help it. Not right now. Not when he’s done… what he’s done.

“Oh, for God’s sake, Grace. Okay, yes, maybe it was a stupid idea, but what do you want me to do about it? I’m just a man…” Boyd’s eyes flicker to the collection of papers on the elegant coffee table to his left, the bold words printed there readable even from a distance.

“Stop it,” she orders. “I don’t want to hear it.”

“But you can’t be that angry, surely?” he asks, seemingly rather bewildered.  

Incredulous, and rightly so, she gapes at him for a moment. He’s right, but there’s no sense in telling him that. Not yet. Not when she still has a point to make. Besides, she’s still a long way from calming down.

“Oh, come on, Grace…” It’s delivered with a perfectly executed dose of appallingly dejected puppy dog eyes, and that only irritates her further. Damn him and his ability to know exactly how to push her buttons in order to get what he wants. Her resolve is beginning to waver, despite her best intentions. Until he opens his mouth and utters the fateful words: “You know you want to go really…”

“You think so, do you? Well, right now I don’t know if I want to kiss you or shove you off a bridge,” she declares, still thoroughly nettled.

She means it, too. She mostly means it.

She doesn’t mean it at all.

Grace has no doubt he meant well. That he had his and her – their – best interests at heart, but even so…

Boyd grins at her. Knows he’s gaining ground. Seems to take his chances as he steps straight into her personal space, looking down at her with an intensity she wishes she could ignore. “Can I choose?”

“No!” she barks back, though there is considerably less vigour in her tone than she intended. Damn him. Damn him and his ridiculously handsome face and his incredibly irritating ability to pique her interest without her even wanting him to.

He chooses for her. Just as, deep down, she knew he would the second the words left her lips. He’s gentle about it, too, his lips brushing hers with all the soft, sweet sensuality Grace could ever want as he leans down into her, his arms sneaking slowly behind her back and looping securely but softly around her waist, holding her close and steady against him.

Part of the problem, she thinks as the kiss reaches its end and they draw unhurriedly apart, is that they are just far, far too good together. She can see in his eyes, the leaping sparks, the smouldering embers, and she can feel the answering flicker of flames calling out to him from somewhere deep inside her. There is a tiny frozen moment as they stand there, a crazy, charged moment, in which they stare at each other, into each other, the atmosphere around them still crackling with the strain of their argument, the heated tension between them stretching and morphing in an entirely predictable way, and then it simply snaps. Shatters entirely as it inevitably always does these days, burned clean away by the fiery heat that exists between them.

Should it be like this? she wonders, as they collide in a kiss that is deep, immoderate and incredibly desperate. Lips, teeth and tongues that battle for supremacy; hands that seek and grab and squeeze. Words that beg and encourage; make declarations for their ears only. There is no subtlety, no gentle approach.

Not here, not now.

This is raw lust, raw need. This is them, caught in a moment of charged erotic weakness, surrendering to the inevitable rather than fighting a pointless battle.

This is them pulling enjoyment and pleasure from what once used to tear them apart.

This is acceptance and love in place of arguments and friction and an inability to accept the inevitable. And lost in the maelstrom of it all, she abandons her questions, her annoyance. Everything that isn’t part of the here and now, of him and her and them.

Because nothing else matters.

Absolutely nothing.

Grace feels her back hit the wall, but she’s barely aware of it. She’s fighting with his buttons, his zip, and Boyd, well, he’s already inside her knickers, his fingers tormenting her, his other hand tugging irritably at her top, struggling to get through to the warm, heavy fullness of her breasts.

They keep up that struggle, pushing and pulling impatiently until the clothes are gone, because even in this reckless moment they both want the sensation and feedback that complete nakedness brings. They both need the freedom to touch and tease and feel.

Gasping, Grace pulls away from his mouth, licking her lips, the whimper that escapes from her morphing into a heavy moan as his fingers venture further, sliding inside her even as his thumb maintains its delicious assault on her most sensitive flesh.

Far from idle in this game, she watches his eyes slide halfway closed as she works her own magic, one hand raking though his hair, his beard, and across his shoulders, her nails knowing exactly the spots to drag over skin and make him mutter and curse into her neck as he nips and bites and sucks at the skin there, hellbent on tormenting her. It’s entirely a two-way street, though, and as Boyd palms her breast, working roughly enough to be intensely stimulating, but gently enough not to hurt her whilst somehow simultaneously teasing the nipple until she thinks she wants to scream with just how incredibly good it all feels, Grace’s other hand has a firm grasp on his rigid cock, and is skilfully working him into a frenzy. She’s good at it, and she knows it. Knows exactly how far she can push him before it’s time to ease off, to leave him so impatient for more that he will pick her up and press her back into the wall, plunging into her with all the frenetic, impulsive need she could ever want in chaotic, erotic moments of insanity like these.

Just as she predicts, as she hopes, he does, and as she wraps her legs around Boyd’s waist and grips his shoulders tightly, Grace stares into his deep dark eyes and sees the crazy mixture of wildness and hunger, of obsessive fascination with _her_. It feels so unbelievably good, and as he begins to move, those first few thrusts make her cry out, his name falling from her lips in a near begging groan as his grip on her tightens and he grunts in counterpoint. Their lips crash together again, and though the kiss stops short of bruising it is far from gentle as they give and take with all the frantic, electric need of the feverishly charged moment.

It can’t last long, not when they are both so wound up, so desperate, so almost already there, but they work together, perfectly in harmony even with the wildness of it all, and as she gazes at him and he looks at her, spontaneous laughter and amused, affectionate grins escape from both of them as, just for a tiny scrap of time, love and understanding breaks though as the primary overwhelming sensation.

It vanishes as Boyd winks, unreservedly wicked as he shifts his hips slightly, just enough to change the angle from what is already good to absolutely perfect. That tiny movement is all it takes and as he thrusts hard and deep Grace half screams half sobs his name again as the world shatters around her. She just about hears him shouting, vaguely feels his head crashing forwards into her neck, his body slumping into her, pinning her remorselessly against the wall, and Christ, is it good as the exquisite pleasure continues to ripple through her. 

Still twitching, still mostly unaware of what’s going on, of where she is, she becomes loosely conscious of the extreme discomfort of being crushed against the very unforgiving surface of the living room wall, of the unrelenting weight of him pressed against her chest. “Sofa,” she manages to gasp, and somehow, _somehow_ , he collects himself just a little, just enough and straightens, staggers the half a dozen steps to the long, incredibly comfy piece of furniture, collapsing down onto it, all the while keeping her tightly in his grasp.

It’s not by any means an elegant subsidence, nor is it particularly comfortable, but Grace doesn’t remotely care. Not when she’s sprawled across his chest, face buried in his neck, and his arms are still wrapped around her, still clinging on. Not when she’s drifting in the kind of stupefied, tranquil state of heavy satisfaction and love that has overtaken her. And certainly not when she can feel the same thing radiating back from him, when she can feel the tiniest tender brush of his lips against the top of her head before he gives in to the heavy torpor overtaking him and slumps bonelessly into the cushions.

She stirs first. Feels the world creep slowly, very slowly, back in around her. She yawns, stretches carefully, feels the pull of irritable, abused muscles. Ignores them. Concentrates of the warmth of the man beneath her, the smoothness of his skin, the steadiness of his breathing. The blissful comfort of his arms cradling her against him like a precious object.

It takes a huge effort, but eventually she’s able to raise her head, to find him gazing placidly and contentedly at her.

“It was a good choice,” Boyd asserts, lifting his head to place a tiny kiss on the end of her nose. His eyes gleam with now thoroughly blunted but certain mischief.

She laughs, both at his lazy words, and his conviction as he says them, his absolute surety that he is right – not just about her statement, but his actions too – and that he knew she would agree with him eventually.

Out of the corner of her eyes she catches sight of the offending invitation he has already replied to; Peter Boyd plus one having been cordially invited to the wedding of Mr Thomas Michael Smith and Miss Leah Bethany Boyd.

His family have never even met her. Don’t even know she exists. And that’s without the complication of the two of them trying to make taking holiday at the same time go unnoticed at work.

But it’s a wedding. She loves weddings. And it’s in the Maldives.

The _Maldives_.

She still needs the last word though, always has done. “Hm. I suppose so.”

Beneath her Boyd tenses for the briefest of seconds, and then begins to shake with silent laughter as he reads in her expression what she is doing. “You’re one of a kind, Grace,” he smirks, shaking his head in amusement.

“And?” she prompts, arching a single eyebrow.

“And,” he replies, this time tracing his lips slowly and delicately over hers, “I wouldn’t want you any other way.”

“Good answer, Peter.”

“I rather thought so.”

Impossible man, she thinks, resisting the urge to roll her eyes. “Don’t let me go,” she orders, settling back down against him and closing her eyes, succumbing to the cosy pull of slumber and letting herself begin to drift again. 

Boyd fidgets his way onto his side, taking her with him, curling around her. Somehow finds the blanket thrown across the back of the sofa and one-handedly finagles it over them both. “As if,” he mutters.

One hand rubs lazy circles on her back, lulls her further towards her dreams. Grace yawns and nuzzles his chest lightly. He’s warm, he smells nice, and she adores him. And he really does make good choices… though she’s definitely not going to tell him that.


End file.
